


Condition

by romanoff



Series: Substance [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt Tony, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Sub Tony Stark, The Ten Rings - Freeform, Tony Angst, Tony Has Issues, Touch-Starved, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission was a bad idea. Tony could have told you that before he ended up on his knees. </p><p>Tony is a sub on a team of doms. Nothing particularly unusual about that. Except that Tony is keeping it together by a very thin thread and everything he's worked to keep inside for so long is unravelled by one moment and his own damn biology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Condition

**Author's Note:**

> DONT FCKN LOOK AT ME JFC 
> 
> so there's past abuse, emotional and physical, attempted rape and this is set in a dom/sub au so there's bound to be consent issues. Please pay heed if you think this could be a trigger.
> 
> but it's a happy ending, for once.

 

The team stood in the wreckage of an abandoned Soviet factory.

A man with one eye and a twisted lip was smiling from the balcony.

He’d called them here. He’d told them he had a bomb, that he demands an audience with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

I mean, it probably could have gone worse? The Ten Rings, strictly speaking, _was_ SHIELD business. That meant that that, yes, technically, the Avengers were required to put down any resistance when, no matter how ridiculously paltry, it occurred.

But this. This was just fucking incompetence. It’s actually getting a little bit embarrassing. For the past six months, Tony had been tracking his man, the stereotyped Russian dick-head from all over the globe, in a desperate attempt to stop him from spreading his fucking general _awfulness_ any further.

It had left Tony irritable, tense, and eager for the asshole with the joker smile to get on with it. But no, please, continue to monologue about you ever-lasting importance to mankind, how they will rise again, how balance will be restored and the weak will perish, it’s _fascinating_ if not incredibly telling about this man’s mental state. Tony doesn’t even know his name. He couldn’t help himself, beginning to switch off, this man’s voice… it was sending him to sleep.

In fact, he probably never would have even bothered to listen to what came next if he hadn’t jumped, _fucking jumped,_ of the balcony he was standing on and landed about seven feet from where Tony stood, suited and armed. 

Natasha’s gun cocked, Clint’s bow was raised, Bruce stood, quiet and seething and Thor raised mjolnir, ready.

Tony, in turn, held his palms out, careful, controlled. 

Slowly, the man stalked towards him.

He heard before he saw the repulsers readying to fire.

The man hold up both hands, pacifying, takes a step back.

“I only wish to look in greater detail at your suit, Stark. No need to resort to violence,” and then he cocks his head, grins “I mean, for a sub, you’re pretty trigger-happy.”

Tony blows the ground next to his foot.

“Tony,” It’s Steve, his voice warning “careful.”

He slides up the faceplate, looks from the Steve to this man.

“What’s it to you?” He can’t stand for that, he can’t, I mean, it’s just _unnecessary,_ why does his orientation matter? What’s this guy trying to _imply?_ He’s practically a neo-Nazi traditional, who wouldn’t look out of place in the bible belt, so he’s probably all for subs being on their knees, licking a dom’s boots, but it’s 2013 and nobody thinks like that anymore, he has no reason to feel inadequate here. Or for the back of his neck to start prickling.

He stares him down, not once breaking eye contact.

“I called you here,” he moves, not looking away from Tony, still trying to stare him down, and the prickling and, _oh god,_ the urge to fall to his knees, intensifies “because I said I had a weapon of mass destruction. Admittedly, I lied. Captain, you underestimate us. Your scavenging attempts to find us have failed. We are stronger than ever.”

Then he grins.

“Take off your helmet Tony.”

His hands move of no volition of there own as they unlatch the hatches that keep it in place. He stands, uneasy and unsure.

Steve hisses a _Tony_ and the man just says “Put your helmet on the floor next to you.”

The instruction is so neat, so precise, it just _begs_ to be followed, really. And why shouldn’t he, why not — _no, no_ this shouldn’t be happening, why, the prickling intensifies and he takes a step back.

“Tony,” the man says, his voice hard “obey me.” 

And Tony gently places the helmet down on the ground, his head slipping like it hasn’t in years.

“What are you doing to him,” Natasha’s voice is cool, calm, she’s trying to diffuse the situation before it goes to far, she has one hand across Steve, stopping him from taking a step further.

“Weapon of _mass destruction._ There are easier ways to control a population. Subs are… malleable, despite their best efforts. Doms are controllable, if you find a suitable pressure point. And this, well, it’s been a long time coming, recently. It’s all about the right frequency,” he draws a slender device from his pocket “right now, this is on a 2 out of a possible 10. You can’t hear anything, but I’m afraid it’s making Tony go a little weak at the knees, isn’t that right boy?”

Tony doesn’t know what’s expected of him so he looks around warily.

“Hmm. Yes, well, like I said, it’s only a 2 out of 10. There’s still a lot of room for negative feedback,” he turns again, looks at each of them in the eye “but if we cranked it up to, let’s say _five,”_

Tony gasps, his body relaxing within the suit.

“Stop that,” Steve is tense, he’s raising his shield, this man is going to die—

“Steve, _no,_ we need him.” He thinks that’s Bruce. Or maybe Clint. He can’t be sure over the rushing of blood in his ears.

“Kneel, boy.”

And Tony sinks down, so simple, so willing, his mouth parted slightly and his eyes wide, innocent.

Steve has never seen Tony kneel for anyone. Ever. There’s a sudden rush of _want_ and then it’s followed by a crush of the cruelty of this Dom, making him kneel like this when everything Steve knows about him is screaming _wrong wrong wrong_ (as well as a lot of _right right right._

Bruce growls.

“Oh such a _good boy,”_ he croons an Tony outwardly preens, shifts in his suit, it can’t be comfortable “why don’t you crawl here, boy.” 

So Tony begins to move, every movement limited, the suit isn’t made for this, it’s ridiculous and impossible to watch.

He makes eye contact with Thor, then Clint, then Natasha. They need to move. This needs to finish, it’s gone on long enough.

“Stop.” Steve commands. He’s talking to the man, but Tony suddenly freezes, turns uncertainly. 

“Tony, keep going, boy.” Tony looks from Steve to the man, like a deer in the headlights.

“No. Tony. Listen to me.” And he’s hitting all those notes, the ones that make the subs squirm. 

The other dom flicks the thin device up, one notch, _two,_ and Tony shudders and _sinks_ lower, holds his body as close to the ground as he can and slowly inches towards Steve.

“ _I gave you an order, boy.”_

_“_ Sorry, sorry sir.” And it’s the first time Tony has spoken since the sub-frequency was activated. But he continues to edge towards Steve, a slight desperation on his features. He kneels, slightly behind his leg, and Steve instinctively places a hand in his hair. 

Tony’s eyes slide shut.

“That’s enough, you’ve had your _fun._ Hand that over and we won’t kill you.” Steve is defiant, Steve is dominant, Steve is the winner here, he got the sub, and Steve is increasingly distracted by Tony rubbing his cheek against his leg. 

The man spits. He’s aiming for Tony but the twisted lip means it only reaches his own shoe.

“You’re an idiot,” Clint chimes “Oh my God, you’re actually an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t judge, if I were you, _Hawkeye._ We are a organisation of stunning efficiency—”

“Didn’t Tony, you know, the guy on his knees, wipe you out a couple of years back?”

The man frowns “No, obviously not entirely. We extend beyond petty terrorism—”

“But, I mean, you’re kinda on hard times right now. I mean, you called the six of us here to… what? Okay, congratulations, you accessed a part of Iron Man’s biology that we all would rather _not see,_ that’s great, you did what doms around the world have been doing since the dawn of time. And then, your weapon a mass destruction is _sound,_ I mean, really, your delivery could use some work. Come on, don’t look at me like that, I’m giving you some good advice.”

“Clint, really? Is now really the time?” Bruce looks like he’s passed the point of exasperation and is quickly derailing into anger.

Steve tightens his fingers in Tony’s hair and he actually purrs at the feel.

He has to swallow, hard.

“Take him out. There’s a cell for him on the helicarrier. I’ll… I’ll take Tony.” Steve tightens his grip and gently pulls him up, Tony keens, looks at Steve like he’s the axis his world turns on.

“Come on, Tony.”

“Call him _boy.”_ The man sneers and Steve tugs, Tony finally climbing to his knees.

He places a hand on the back of his neck, the other on the small of his back, slings his shield over his shoulder. Tony is stumbling as he gently pushes him across the wide factory floor. 

This whole exercise was close to pointless: all it got them was a sinking Tony and information about a weapon whose actual capability is limited to making subs kneel, not exactly a revolutionary device.

He’s steering Tony to the quinjet and there’s snow falling so softly onto the ground. It makes little noises when it hits Tony’s armour, only just perceptible to Steve’s heightened senses. Once they reach the entrance, Steve knows that he can’t delay this any longer. He coughs, turns Tony to face him, uncomfortable but doing his duty, Tony is his team member, he needs to do this.

“You should take of the armour, it’ll be easier.” Tony blinks.

“Tony,” he repeats, firm “remove your armour so you can board the quinjet.” 

He blinks again. And then it slowly slides from his body, opens up, and Tony just falls, kneels in the slush by the ramp onto the quinjet.

“Tony,” Steve hisses, can’t help it, Tony shouldn’t be doing this, they can’t do this “get up.”

He looks uncertain, his eyes wide “Sorry?”

“Tony,” he tries, more gently “you need to get off the ground and get onto the quinjet, understand? So we can go home. It will be warm in there and you must be cold.” He’s dressed only in his under suit, and Steve only know notices his feet are bare.

He begins to crawl up the ramp.

“No! No, uh, no, you can walk. Walking is better.” It’s rushed and awkward and Steve is _trying,_ really he is, but god, this is so _uncomfortable._

Tony’s going to hate him when this is over.

He stands, shaky, and looks at Steve again. 

“Go on,” he prompts, and then, as an afterthought “uh, good boy.”

Tony suddenly smiles, so happy, and ducks his head, shy. He ambles into the warmth and sits stands, waiting for further commands.

“Why don’t you sit,” he looks around “here. You sit here. Your feet must be freezing. Um.” Steve stands at a loss as Tony sits and looks at him expectantly.

“Do up your seatbelt?” Steve tries and Tony just looks at him.

“I mean, _Tony. Do up your seatbelt.”_ He forces his voice into that pitch that seems to shake Tony into action.

And then he waits. Tony continues to look at him as if he’s his sun and moon and all the stars in between. It’s an uncomfortable intensity, one that shouldn’t be for him.  He props his shield between his legs and fiddles with the strap. 

He wonders what’s keeping them. Maybe he should go and check.

He looks at Tony, who is still staring at him with a single-minded look of acute longing. Longing for what, Steve doesn’t know. He’s never seen Tony like this, so pliant, and dopey, and willing and… subby. And things have changed, since he was at war. He doesn’t know how to act, what to say, or do. Had this happened to one of his commando’s he would have taken them down, held them through the drop, called him ‘good boy’ and told him how well he did.

He tries not to think of another brunet with a large mouth and a propensity for snark. Who protected him even though he was a dom. Who played sub despite the fact his dom could never treat him like the others did. Until, of course, he could.

Nope. No. Not thinking. He focuses on the cold, on the feel of leather beneath his fingers, of the trample of footsteps up the jet. The muffled talking, tries to keep his breathing deep, under control, can’t let his fingers shake not now.

Natasha watches the two of them, Tony looking at Steve for anything, everything, and Steve steadfastly ignoring him, fingering the leather of his shield. 

She takes pity.

Outside, Clint is disassembling the suit. Thor is bending the unconscious dom’s limbs into a seat, but gives up and just ties the seatbelt round his torso. Nobody complains.

She motions at Steve to join her and sends Bruce in.

“Just check him over, in case.”

Bruce is squatting in front of Tony, shining a pen-light in his each of his eyes. He tilts his head, checks his ears for blood or signs of trauma.

“Open your mouth.”

Tony’s mouth slides open on command.

“Blink three times.”

One, two, three.

“Okay. What’s the date?”

He looks at Bruce, vacant. He shifts in his seat, frowns. His hands begin to clench and unclench on the armrests and sweat prickles his brow despite the cold.

He shakes his head, hangs it low “Sorry, sir.”

Bruce shuts his med-kit with a snap, gently rubs his knee “That’s okay, Tony, it’s okay. Good boy.” He ruffles his hair one more time and stands.

“So,” he starts “I don’t know if you can tell but he’s pretty far down. There’s not much we can do except keep him warm, keep up the reassurances. Does he…” Bruce lowers his voice “do you know, does he have anyone to… see to his needs?”

Steve frowns “He isn’t seeing anyone.”

“I mean, maybe, professionally? Subs without doms usually rent services to keep them, you know, _happy._ Uh, it might be difficult to see him through without someone to level him.”

Natasha shrugs “I don’t think he’s that keen on going under to be honest.”

“How is that possible?” Steve looks aghast at a Tony who is currently sitting with his head tipped back, swinging his legs against the chair “How does he not…” He tries to stop the deep pang of sympathy in his chest.

“There was someone. Not my place to say.” Natasha starts.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” she says, too innocent.

“You start saying things and then never follow them up. What do you want me to say? Who were they? Why are they not with Tony now?”

Natasha smiles “Maybe you should ask him.”

“You’re manipulative.”

“Yes. And?”

Clint starts the jet. Steve climbs in the back with Tony, sits across from him. 

They slowly lift into the air “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

Tony looks at him. Those beautiful round eyes. Steve blushes despite himself.

“If you sleep, this will all be over.”

Tony dips his head, flicks glances up at Steve. He’s shaking.

“Hey, no, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Tony looks so confused.

Steve panics. 

“Why don’t, uh,” he’s blushing, he’s out of practice he tells himself, that’s why “good boy. Good boy. Why don’t you just, uh, sit, yeah? Okay. Good.”

Tony stills, hangs his head, plays with his hands.

He’s vulnerable like this. 

 

* * *

 

At some point, Steve is leading Tony out onto the deck of the helicarrier. Really, this is no place for a sub whose under but the debrief is necessary and the prisoner needs to be contained. 

He has to lead him across the concrete and inside but people are staring and he realises how this must look. Tony is still wearing only the under suit and he’s exposed, easily manipulated and like an open wound.

He takes him to his own personal room. He has one because he is, technically, an employee of SHIELD whereas Tony is only a consultant. It looks out into the sky.

And suddenly it’s incredibly uncomfortable. Where does he put him? The bed is too suggestive, anywhere else implies punishment. What does he tell him to do? It’s not right, him ordering him as if he belongs to him. Tony Stark is not his.

Tony stands, head still bowed, hands still moving and sways slightly. He must be tired, because the flight was long, and he’s still so down, someone should have taken care of this, but it can’t be him. It can’t be Steve.

He pages Natasha.

In the meantime, he places Tony at the desk overlooking the clouds. Tells him to sit.

Tony looks up “You don’t…” Steve nods, encourages him to continue “you don’t want me… on the desk, sir?”

The bottom falls out of Steve’s stomach.

“What? No, no, that’s not, you’re not my sub, Tony. You can’t… uh, how about you just sit there?” Steve is panicking. Again. He can’t stop the blush that forms on his cheeks.

Tony looks away, looks down. He’s sorry, he says, he was wrong, and then he quietens and looks out the window.

Steve is sitting on the other side of the room when Natasha arrives.

“Oh dear.” Is all she says.

“Nat, I can’t do this,” Tony is making shapes in the metal with his finger, square, circle, diamond “I can’t — you need to take him. Find someone to give him what he needs.”

“We need to debrief.”

“Well, we _can’t,_ not until we find somewhere for Tony,” he looks at him desperately “please, Natasha.”

“I can — we can try the infirmary. Strictly speaking, it’s not for this sort of thing but maybe—”

“Yes, good, _fine,_ Tony? Tony, Natasha is going to take you someplace safe, okay? Do you understand?”

Tony looks from Natasha and Steve “Do I… have I… I can be better?” he looks vaguely concerned, like he’s talking from rote-memory and he’s said the wrong line.

“It’s _not_ punishment, Tony. We’ll come and get you and take you home after. But the nurses can take care of you there.”

He slowly rises “Okay.” His mouth forms a slow ‘O’ as he shapes the word, languorous.

“Take him and I’ll meet you in the central command?” Steve is a little bit desperate and Natasha sighs.

“Go. I’ll handle this.”

 

* * *

 

Tony is _so_ confused.

Time stretches like this. He can’t be sure how long he’s been… _under._ It’s strange because first he was told to crawl, and then he was told to stand, and he thinks he was bad because he actually tried to crawl when Steve wanted him to stand, and then Steve told him to _sleep,_ but that’s, Obie never, this feels wrong. Steve told him to sit at the desk but he didn’t bend him over the desk? Strange. And now Natasha leads him into a white room with a bed and she tells him ‘sit’ so he sits on the floor and then she sighs and says ‘the bed’ and he’s sorry he got it so wrong, he can feel tears prickling at his eyes but no one tells him that he’s done good or even that he’s done bad and it’s so confusing. He curls over on the bed to face the wall because Natasha has gone as well, he must have been _really_ bad? 

The other man in the room is tapping at his computer.

Tony wraps his arms around his legs, pulls them up to his chest. Tries not to cry. Obie… he hated that.

So he tucks his head to his chest, tries to make himself as small as possible. Nobody wants him. Nobody touches him. Nobody even strokes his hair, or even punishes him. He wonders what he did to be so bad.

The typing stops. Tony realises that he has actually been crying.

“Aww, Mr Stark, you okay?” 

He shakes his head at the comforting voice.

“You’re pretty far down, huh?”  

He nods. And then there’s a hand in his hair.

He arches into it, desperate for some contact, he’s lost without the touch.

“Wow, you’re so responsive. Such a good boy.”

“I’m a good boy?” he’s glowing inside, oh, it’s such a relief. He was so worried. But it’s okay, he’s good now.

“I bet you can be so good.” Tony rolls onto his side, sits up, looks into the nurse’s kind eyes and nods.

“Yeah, I can. I can do anything.” He’s so eager to please.

“Really? _Anything? Wow,_ ” he grins “could you get down on your knees, right now?”

Of course, of course he can. He slides, looks up at the dom with wide eyes.

“It’s okay, the camera’s off. This is going to make _you_ feel better, mm? It’s going to feel good to suck my cock.”

No? He doesn’t, he can’t. No. He just wants someone to be _nice,_ he doesn’t want to— not since Obie, not since— 

He squirms “Maybe no, maybe, I don’t want to.”

He keeps fisting both hands in his hair “or _maybe”_ he smile, wide, feral “maybe I should bend you over the bed and fuck you raw?”

Tony shudders, because, oh, being _dominated,_ and _used, the pain,_ it feels so good. But he can’t. He can’t. Obie. It would be too bad, too bad. He doesn’t want to.

“No, sir, no please. I don’t want to.”

“God, Iron Man on his knees, ready to suck my cock—”

“No sir, I don’t want to sir—”

“The _great_ Tony Stark, subbing for _me,_ wow—”

“Are you deaf, sir?” And Tony _knows_ that that is bad, he should never, ever be rude to his dom. Obie would have punished him so bad, he would have really hurt him, he hated it when Tony talked back.

“Excuse me? _What did you say?”_ The slap isn’t that hard “I think you should beg for forgiveness.”

Tony doesn’t want this, he tries to pull the hands from his hair.

The dom unzips the front of his undersuit in response.

No.

Tony is very tired, and he’s very sad, and he really just wants a dom to take _good care_ of him. But not like this. His sub senses are saying no no no wrong wrong wrong.

The nurse pulls the zip down further till it rests just above his groin.

This is wrong. So he kicks the dom’s feet out from under him and runs.

 

* * *

 

When Steve find’s Tony he’s in the storage where the Iron Man suit is usually kept. He sits, huddled in the corner. It’s all very pathetic and yet incredibly endearing.

“Tony.”

The ball shifts.

“Tony, look at me,” he says, crouching down “you ran away. That was… that was not good.”

“It was bad?” the huddle whispers.

Steve thinks “Natasha told you to sit on the bed.”

“I know. I know, and I lay, I lay on the bed, oh, oh I’m sorry, she told me to _sit,_ and I—”

What? No. He wonders briefly if Tony is playing him.

“Look at me,” and Tony finally tilts up his chin “Natasha told you to stay in the room, yes?”

He nods.

“And you ran. Why?”

He shakes his head.

Steve sighs. 

“Okay. Okay, you were scared. We’re not being very good to you, and I’m sorry. We’re not used to this,” he forces a smile “to you, being so… uh, subby. But it’s okay. I’m going to take you home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir, yeah?”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Good enough. He pulls Tony up, tucks him under his arm, keeps him safe.

“… Captain?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“Are you… am I going to be punished? For running?”

Steve doesn’t need to think “No, of course not.”

“Even though I was bad?”

Steve still marvels at this, how Tony has changed from the usual, cocky visage, to this. How effectively he hides his biology, his orientation to a point where he is unrecognisable. 

“You’re my team-mate. Not my sub.”

“Oh.” Is all he says.

 

* * *

 

Some days later, Tony lies in his garage, burning with humiliation. And not the good kind.

Jesus F. Christ and his mother, what did he do.

He’s about 99.9% sure that he can never look his teammates in the eyes again, not after, _ugh._

He shudders.

And then there was the dom on the helicarrier who took him to his knees.

(He’s already fixed his expense report: in the next week or so it will become apparent that $100,000 dollars will have been spent on printer ink that nobody needed and the culprit will be the nurse in room 261.)

He hasn’t been taken down in such a long time. In so long. Not since.

No. Don’t think about that. Do. Not.

But he can never stop his mind from wandering and he can’t stop focusing on Obie, and what he did and how Tony took it all willingly.

How even now, he gets off more on pain than on pleasure. How he loves punishments more than the loving, warm touch of a kind-hearted dom.

It makes him sick. He feels disgusting.

He actually wonders if there is another way to be in a relationship. If maybe, he wasn’t the unnatural one in whatever it was he and Obie had. That when he wished Obie would stroke and kiss instead of slap and bite it was a normal reaction.

He remembers one night were Obie pushed him to his knees, stripped him, and told him not to move from his spot on the floor. All night. 

And how he would make him eat from a dog’s bowl.

How, after Afghanistan, he got him to open up with kind words and light touches, and Tony had felt so loved, so lucky and so safe after everything that had happened.

And then he forced him to take a bath with him, the water running over his head, until he pissed himself in fear. And then he punished him for that, hog-tied him with a gag in his mouth and ate sushi off his back and ass.

And how, in the end, it turned out he knew _exactly_ what happened to Tony in that cave because he authorised it. And, that night when he sent him deep into his own head, so far under he could barely remember his name, commanded him not to move and the ripped his heart from his chest, telling him he was such a good boy, his good boy, so good for sitting there and dying.

Tony knows, rationally, that this is the sub drop. He was taken down to hard, to fast, and nobody really tried to bring him back up.

His body is feeling neglected, his head is hurting. He feels so lethargic, so doped. He wants to do something but he can’t, he’s scared of an unknown terror. 

So many times Tony has thought about getting a dom. A new dom. And in his head, he sometimes fantasises about what he would be like. A man, definitely. Tall, strong, enough to hold him down, bend him to his will. But kind. And at night, he would hold him. After he’d used him, he would stroke his hair, tell him what a good boy he was. Tony would serve him so willingly, wear a collar for him. He would never be cruel or vicious or tell Tony that he was stupid. He would never force Tony to sit in a bath, screaming, until he lost himself to fear. Or make him kneel all night. He would punish him, maybe, but only when he deserved it. And afterwards, he would always, _always_ say “you’re forgiven, of course you’re forgiven” and hold him so tight and keep him so safe.

It makes Tony’s eye sting, just a little, because it’s so pathetic. To dream like that. He has more important things to do, to be. 

It’s not his fault if sometimes he just wants a little bit of love. He thinks he might be touch starved. He knows he’s isolating himself. But he can’t— he can’t help but think, he let Obie in, and Obie tried to break him. And, really, what would stop a new dom doing the same?

 

* * *

 

And so, in true Stark fashion, Tony gets drunk.

It’s not… unusual. But it’s a shit way to deal with a sub drop.

Alcohol is a depressant, technically. It hasn’t made him feel any better so now he’s just going to try drinking to forget.

Which is when, he thinks, Jarvis might of called Steve. Because Tony is past ‘drinking to forget’ and is on the fast track to a nice little stop called ‘alcohol poisoning.’

He’s such a two-timing little _snake._

When Steve arrives, Tony is lying at one of his desk. At he is past the point of coherency, the point of  any _rational_ decision.

So Steve demands him to stop. Asks him _what’s wrong._

_And Tony laughs._

He laughs, and laughs, and flips himself onto the desk, sits himself on the edge, movements thick and stumbled, pulls him close and then they’re kissing.

Steve pushes him away.

“You’re drunk.”

“But _Stevie,_ you asked what was wrong.”

“Don’t, Tony. Don’t push me.”

“Yesss. Yess, it must have been _sooo_ difficult for you, trapped in, uh, sub space. And, and, nobody touched you, or kissed you, or stroked your hair or called you good boy, I have to _push_ now, Stevie, have to, have to get what I want.” And he giggles.

“And what is it exactly that you want?”

He mouths Steve’s neck, breathes hard “Too many words, Stevie, you don’t need that _many,_ just, mm, give me what I need.” He kisses him again.

This time Steve reciprocates. Briefly.

“Stop, stop _now._ You’re drunk. You don’t understand—”

“ _I want,_ Stevie, there’s so much I want from you, mmm,” he licks his jaw to his mouth “why don’t you bend me over this table? Hmm? I can be so good for you,” he moves his lips to his ear, voice low, a whisper “hurt me, please. I love it when it hurts.”

Steve pushes him away and he falls down the front of the desk, in a heap.

“You need,” he’s breathing _hard_ “to _stop._ NOW.”

“But why? You’re getting angry, you can _hurt me_ so good,” he’s on all fours, giggling, back arched “oh _please,_ Stevie. Don’t be like that.” And he rubs his head against his leg.  

“Is this about what happened? Is this some kind of fucked up sub drop? Is this why you don’t go down with people, Tony, because you act like some kind of deranged _freak_ when it’s over? Do you beg them not to leave you? Those partners? To hold you close after they’ve used you, as if they care? It must be pathetic to watch, really.”

Steve is angry but he’s not hurting Tony. At least, not with his fists.

Tony scoots towards him, shuffles on his knees.

“My last dom, he was a _dickhead,_ I think, maybe. Or maybe it _was_ me. I don’t know, really. But I do know that _I love the pain._ Please, Steve, my head is all… funny. And I know you don’t want me, I know I… _bad boy._ But, you can punish me. You can, and I’ll take everything you give me. You don’t, you won’t even _need_ a safeword, I’m so good, please.”

“And then what, Tony? I leave you afterwards, leave you to drop on your own. Is that how you do it?”

“That’s how _he_ did it.”

“Your last dom.”

He screws his eyes shut, shakes his head “Don’t wanna.”

“Did he hurt you as well?” Steve isn’t angry anymore. Or maybe he is. But his tone is calm.

“He… we… I don’t know. But I love the pain.”

“You’re conditioned, aren’t you?”

“Stevie, stop using big words,” he straddles Steve’s lap “show me something _bigger”_ he giggles.

“You’re conditioned to love pain. Your last dom. He did that to you.”

“Please fuck me?”

“You’re drunk. I’m not going to take advantage.”

Even Tony can hear the finality.

“But, you would. If I wasn’t so… drunk, you would.”

“Yes.”

Tony purrs, rubs his head against Steve’s neck, grinds down.

“Tony,” and suddenly it’s not Steve it’s a dom and it goes straight to his head “I told you to Stop. Obey me.”

“Sorry sir, so sorry.” He shuts his eyes, tilts his head forward, bowed.

“Listen to me. I want you to go upstairs and lie down in my bed. Tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’re going to talk. Maybe discuss your punishment. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good boy. I want you washed and lying down by the time I get there. You have thirty minutes. Wear one of the shirts from the top draw of my wardrobe. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes sir.”

Steve pushes him off his lap “Go, then. Your time starts now.”

 

* * *

 

Tony wonders if Steve wants him awake or asleep. He didn’t specify and Tony is still very very _drunk._

He’s in Steve’s bed, and, oh, it smells _just like him,_ a little bit like vanilla and sweat and leather. So perfect.

Steve is being so good to him.

He burrows under the covers and it’s warm.

He’s wearing Steve’s shirt. Steve is letting him wear one of his _shirts._ Oh _wow._ It’s like a having a proper dom, almost. 

He hears Steve enter and makes his body relax, smooth his breathing. Steve doesn’t speak so he figures it’s okay to go ahead and sleep.

The bed tips as he climbs in next to him. And then there’s a hand in his hair.

“Oh such a good boy,” it croons. Oh he is, he is such a good boy.

“That’s right, Tony, you’ll always be good for me.”

Yes sir, yes Obie.

Obie.

How did, why is, he’s dead—

He turns, the bearded face so close, he can smell his breath on his face.

“Tony, my boy, is this really what you’re playing at? You _really_ going to _replace me?”_

“Sorry, sorry sir. I—”

“Ah ah, boy, what did I tell you about speaking?”

Tony remains silent and Obie grins.

“Now you’ve got it. Seen but not heard. I want to see what you can do for me.”

“N-no.”

Slap.

“Excuse me?”

“S-s-steve. Steve. Steve!”

“Stop that, boy. Stop that right now.”

“Steve, Steve, Steve please, please,” he can’t stop, he’s whimpering it, the word pushing from his lips.

Obie is getting angry, he’s shaking him “Stop that! STOP THAT.”

And then he’s sitting up, so suddenly he doesn’t know which way is down, and Obie isn’t there, he was never there, and the sun streams onto the bed, and he shakes and shakes and 

“Steve? Steve? Steve?”

“Shh, Tony. I’m here. I’m right here. I am _behind you,_ okay? Don’t be scared, I won’t touch you.”

He actually sobs, just a bit “I _want_ you to touch me. Why don’t you understand,” he shudders, then “why— _what do I have to do?_ Why, why does no one. Ever. _Touch me?”_

And Steve pulls him back, holds hims against his chest, strokes his hair. He’s saying little things like ‘good boy’ and ‘my boy’ and ‘sweetie’ and it’s everything and more that Obie never ever gave him and it’s chasing away his ghost like the first vestiges of sun on shadows.

Eventually he pulls away. He has to. 

The air feels tight, awkward. Tony is aware of every movement behind his back.

Steve looks at him “If you like,” he begins “I can bring you some breakfast. We can eat, and talk. And then, if you want to, we can discuss punishment for last night’s transgressions. How does that sound.”

Tony nods, slowly and then “But you’re not my dom.”

“In which case, I am your Captain. So it’s my job to take you in hand. Let me do my job.” He pushes two pillows behind Tony’s back, pulls the blanket up to his chest.

Tony drifts for a while, tries not thinking about Obie, tries thinking about anything else, what a good dom Steve could be, maybe, how nice he’d be, _how kind._ How Tony can’t afford to screw this up, not his, he can’t, he doesn’t think he can take it.

So when Steve gets back, he keeps his head down and his hands in his lap. He’s trying to remember what would happen when Obie bought him breakfast but Obie never really _did_ so he’s on uncertain ground.

Steve places the tray piled with toast in front of him and sits behind it. Blueberry jam. He loves Blueberries.

He still looks down. Steve needs to make the first move, it would be rude of him to speak, he thinks, maybe. 

“So,” Steve begins, passing him a slice “you had a dom before.”

Tony bites and chews and swallows and nods.

“Is that what you were dreaming about?” 

Dreaming. He had been dreaming. Tony realizes that he is _very_ hungover. It explains the pain in his head, the sudden urge to throw-up.

He must be going pale because Steve says “You don’t have to talk, about him, I mean, if you don’t want to. I’m not going to _make_ you.”

Tony’s jaw continues to move and then he swallows.

“Uh,” _great, Tony, really fucking eloquent, you’re a keeper_ “he was. I was. We were together a long time. He’s the only person that ever really… took me down? He was a bit of an asshole, really,” Tony admits “I knew that even while I was with him. Didn’t… didn’t stop me from taking everything he gave me, though. I think it might have been calculated, actually. He was manipulative like that, he conditioned me for pain, would leave me, tell me  I was good for the… _stupidest_ things. It was all psychological. You know. Like, touch-starvation. Every sub needs to be touched. And. Yeah.”

Steve nods, so careful, his eyes… no, it’s not pity, or sympathy, more like empathy. 

“Why don’t you tell me?”

And Tony talks.

He never mentions his name, but he tells Steve about the all-night kneeling sessions, the dog bowl, the collar with his name tag, the whips, the gags, the way he would _ignore_ him, wouldn’t tell him what he’d _done wrong_ so he would cry himself to sleep, so desperate for his dom’s touch to tell him he was good. And then _that_ trip to New York where he was so eager to please, to have him talk to Tony again, that he stood out, naked, in the snow of their balcony and had prostrated himself, begging for forgiveness. And that when his head had been stroked and he had been called ‘good boy’ he gained such a heavy kink for humiliation that it became near impossible to ever _really_ enjoy sex with him again without it. He presses on, can’t stop, talks about the _constant_ disapproval and that feeling of the noose tightening around his neck. He even tells Steve about after Afghanistan, when he made him climb into the bath with water up to his neck and how he’d been so irrationally scared that he could no longer control his bladder, and how his dom had been so angry, that he’d made him take a bath every night until he could hide the shakes and push down the constant, unreasonable fear, because why would any sub need to be afraid of taking a bath with their dom?

And then, how he killed him.

Steve smiles.

“It’s a shame, really, that I can’t kill him now. Do it for you. Do what’s right by my sub.”

Tony is pressing his fingers into the crumbs on the plate, looking down.

“Your sub? Are you sure? I’m not. I might not be… what you want.”

So Steve takes his hand, so gently, presses it to his lips, closes his eyes and speaks “Tony… I know that… this _dom,”_ he spits the word, no real dom would ever treat their sub that way “that he hurt you. And I don’t mean he beat you, or whipped you, although I know that must of hurt. I mean that he led you to believe that you’re something you’re not. That you’re… _bad,_ or stupid, or dull. That you’re boring or below notice for whatever reason. I can only tell you so many times that it’s not true. He _conditioned_ you, Tony. You can’t _sit_ and blame _yourself_ for his problems, because he had issues, Tony. I’m telling you now, no dom would _ever_ get any kind of pleasure from emotionally damaging a sub like that.”

“You think that. That I’m damaged?” Tony’s voice is quavering.

“No. But I think he tried. And I think that you’re still hurting real bad somewhere because of it. But Tony, and I mean this, _I swear,_ I want to help you. I want to be the dom that takes you apart with pleasure and carefully put you back together. I want to hold you. Every night, I want you to know how loved you are. I know how much it must cost you to go down after what he did. How much it hurts to feel that way now. But if you want, I can make it better? For you? If you’ll let me.”

Tony is breath is shaking. He can’t let Steve do this. He can’t force him, or be some kind of pity case. This is… it would be bad. Wouldn’t it. Wouldn’t it? Does he deserve this? A real chance at happiness. He can’t. He can’t do that to Obie. But why? Why does it matter? 

He pictures the dom that he sometimes lets himself imagine, so soft, and who would lay careful strokes on his bare ass, make him squeal, buck and gasp, then hold him close to his chest through the drop. Tell him he’s his. That he’s perfect. And suddenly he had a face.

“You wouldn’t, uh. You would be gentle? And sometimes — it doesn’t, it doesn’t have to be _all_ the time — but sometimes you’d, maybe, I mean, you could hold me? Uh,” he keeps his eyes trained on the blanket “and you’d call me good boy. And stroke my hair? Maybe? I like… yeah. Don’t… I _like_ pain. I really do. But you wouldn’t be vicious, would you?” He looks up “Because then I’d have to kill you.”

“That’s exactly it.”

“Really?” Tony allows himself to be a little bit hopeful “You don’t mind any of that? I know, I mean, I don’t really have much to compare to, but some doms—”

Steve urges him closer “Forget ‘other doms’. I’m not them. I’m here for you. I _want_ to be here for you, I want to be the one to put you back together. Make _you_ happy.”

Tony smiles, a little, swallows. 

“That’s, uh, that’s one of the nicest things anyones ever said to me.”

Steve holds him close for the rest of the morning until the sun reaches it’s peak in the free open sky.

 

* * *

 

Tony rolls in the bed, one hand obnoxiously hitting Steve’s chest.

“You promised punishment.”

Steve chuckles.

 

* * *

 

Tony is bent over the desk. He pants, his cock flush against his chest, desperate for attention. But he can’t touch it. Those are the rules. No touching, no thrusting, no sounds. 

Steve lays the leather on his ass in a steady rhythm and Tony just has to sit there and take it.

It feels so _good._

He can’t break his posture: legs spread, chest against the table, arms spread parallel to the edge. He’s panting in the effort not to moan, or scream, or shout Steve’s name, or all three. He can feel himself going under and doesn’t bother trying to stop it.

He’s not really aware when his arms are dragged behind his back and secured with the belt. Steve coo’s, rubs a hand over his reddened ass and make appreciative noises. Tony preens inwardly.

“Look at you, you’re a pro.” Tony nods into the table, presses his ass back, needs something more.

“God you love this, you love the pain.” Steve marvels, slapping his ass and watching as Tony can no longer suppress a moan. He sits himself back in a chair, pulls Tony down to settle between his legs.

“Suck, then.”

Tony is down, his eyes clouded.

“Sir?”

“Suck my cock.”

“But sir —” He gestures at Steve’s jeans, still buttoned and zipped and then strains against his restraints.

“Use your teeth.”

He watches as Tony devotes every ounce of his flagging concentration to getting to his cock. How he wants it so desperately. He feels how his teeth catch on the button, how his chin rubs tantalisingly against his own hard dick. It’s almost more than he can bear.

But this is for Tony. This task, a focus for him. Tony will not admit defeat, he will try his hardest to please his dom, no matter what.

Once the zip is open Steve free’s his own lengthening erection, unable to wait much longer. Briefly he wonders how subs manage to go so long without coming but that thought is stored away once Tony takes him in his mouth with one swoop.

Tony can _feel_ the cock at the back of his mouth, relaxes his throats and pushes his head up, down, fucking his lips over Steve’s girth.

He pulls back, licks the shaft, mouths the material over Steve’s thighs, sucks very lightly at the tip with just a _hint_ of teeth. Steve is moaning and Tony is happy, so happy, because his dom thinks he’s _brilliant._

When he brings Steve to completion, he swallows and swallows, takes it all down his throat, licks his lip and nuzzles against Steve’s thigh. Content.

There’s a hand in his hair “G-good boy. Good.” It tightens, drags him up, forward and onto the couch.

“You just — just thrust against me. Rut until you come, there we go, _good boy._ ”

Tony is panting, keening, pushing his body forward is ass pumping as his back arches. He’s panting, moaning (Steve wonders if Tony is as vocal in bed as he is in real life) and his arms are still tight behind his back, his backside hot against Steve’s palms as he takes one cheek in each hand and hold _tight._

He tells Tony to cleans the mess from his shirt and Tony licks dutifully.

And then he undoes the belt, is pulling him close.

“Oh Tony, you were such a good boy for me.”

He’s dazed, his eyes are half-lidded “Really? thas’ good. Than’ you sir.”

He kisses the top of his hair, lays his head down on his lap and strokes through his hair.

“T’hnk you. I love when…” he fades out “I love when, my hair, when…”

He’s fading, Steve can feel his breath even out.

But that’s okay. They have forever. And they are men of substance.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


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